


Legacy

by Aoidos



Category: Inception (2010), James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Humor, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s Q’s real name?” Eames inquires, having the nerve to offer an innocent expression, as though his motives are pure.</p><p>Bond folds his arms, reclined in the doorway, watching him mill about, touching things: the phone, curtains, testing the upper balcony door, which is locked. “Eames, no.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legacy

L’aile de l'ange is a remote slope located 50 kilometers north of the tourist friendly Alpe d'Huez, nestled deep in the heart of of the French Alps. Rich tourists grace d’Huez, but the billionaires prefer the former for its luxury resorts and isolation. Billionaires, such as Aimé Thibault, co-founder of a multinational weapons manufacturer most famous for its compact, stealth drones favored by the Americans and their allies. At thirty-two years of age, Thibault has enough money and political pull to purchase a third world county, but instead prefers doing business with some of their most despicable tyrants and despots, including characters on Interpol’s top ten list. Cozy relationships with politicians on the left and right mean the order to quietly disappear him ascended the intelligence ladder until it landed on M’s desk, and then pivoted into 007’s agenda.

He’s been stationed in northern Africa for seven months, so the change of scenery is most welcome, particularly in the middle of February when the snow is thick and pillowy. It’s also an excuse to break out his most stylish gear, billed to MI6 naturally, and which Bond knows hugs his body like a second skin — it has to, after all, to allow maximum aerodynamics. But perhaps the most appealing perk of the whole arrangement is Q has been ordered into the field. The upper echelons expressed concern that Thibault’s paranoia would result in intercepted communications between Bond and Q branch, so as a safety precaution, they’ve ordered the head of research and development to join Bond for several weeks in the Alps. It’s only the third time in MI6’s 106-year history that the head of Q branch is accompanying a Double-O agent in the field, not an incidental landmark, made all the more delightful because Q hates cold climates almost as much as he loathes flying.

He arrives clutching a gear bag to his chest, nose red and raw from the cold, a resentful scowl furrowing his brow. “Why the bloody buggering hell do I need to be here?” are the first words out of his mouth as Bond regards him in the anteroom of the chic cabin, clutching a mug full of hot toddy, feet burrowed in the fluffy slippers provided _gratuitement_ by the resort. He opens his mouth to remind Q about Thibault’s sophisticated spying network, but he waves a hand through the air, dismissing the thought before he can utter a word. “And don’t blather about the bloody interception of communications. I invented the bloody program Thibault and his bloody amateurs use.” Horn-rimmed glasses instantly fog from the temperature change, and yet he blindly storms forth, instinctively navigating into the sunken living room. Q throws down his bag by the white couch and sits down heavily, huffing through his nose. “Not two seconds ago, M rung me and said Plan A’s off. We can’t just _disappear_ a man like Thibault, he says. ‘People would notice,’ he says. Can you imagine?” Bond takes a slow sip of toddy. He can imagine, actually. He and Q both expressed reservations about the original plan before they left for France, but at the time, were unanimously shut down. It appears the higher brass have since changed their tune. “So the real question is: why, and I do apologize if I’m bordering on redundancy here, _do I buggering need to be here_?”

This situation must be dire. He’s never heard Q use this much profanity in the entire time they’ve known each other. Bond swirls around the amber liquid. “Rough flight?”

Q looks at him and frowns. “We had turbulence the whole time.”

He nods, considering the living room’s glass wall that looks out onto the veranda, and beyond that, pale blue mountains. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“Cheers,” Q sighs, reclining on the couch.

 

* * *

 

He’s still cocooned inside the thick parka (furry hood flipped up to frame his frowning face) when Bond emerges with a cup of Earl Grey a few minutes later. He smirks and deposits the cup and saucer on the glass coffee table. “It’s about twenty degrees in here. I doubt you need all…that,” he says, gesturing to Q’s ridiculous ensemble. Hesitantly, he flips down the hood and unzips the coat, sliding out of it. Beneath, he’s sporting another two layers: collared shirt peeking out from beneath a striped sweater. Nose and cheeks have lost their rosy glow, reverting back to Q’s normal pale visage, and when he adjusts the glasses, Bond notices the lenses are clear. 

“Cheers,” he mumbles again, leaning forth to cradle the mug between his hands. Bond nods and sits in a chair positioned perpendicularly to the couch and waits, watching as Q blows once, twice, across the tea’s placid surface before taking a cautious sip. He knows his tea-making abilities have been approved when Q hums. “M says we’ve got to be more stealth with Thibault, a question of persuasion over aggression.”

Bond cracks the index finger of his right hand. “So he wants me to _persuade_ him—”

“No, not you,” Q interjects, “Someone else. I don’t know which agent, but M texted me that we’re to await further orders, and someone will be arriving soon.”

He blinks owlishly and sneers. “Well, then why the bloody hell am _I_ here?”

Aggravating silence as Q luxuriates in a smug sip of his tea. “Now you know how I feel.”

 

* * *

 

He can’t sit around and wait. The oxygen is stale inside the cabin, the north-facing glass facade too oppressive. It reminds Bond of a cage, so he decides to escape through the front door and get one more ski in before the sun sets. There’s a voluptuous blonde instructor who gave him the once-over earlier, and he’s sure he can spare a few hours in her bed before M rings and gives them updated orders. He’s juggling the skis and struggling to open the front door when Q calls from the couch: “Where are you going?”

“Out. Skiing,” he revises, glancing back once, Q’s concerned face only just visible as he leans forward on the couch. His laptop is open on the coffee table, wires and other flashing boxes scattered around the space. Bond doesn’t know what they are or what they do, but then again, that isn’t his job. He thinks, perhaps, the troubled look is for him. “I’m armed,” he offers, hoping that will put Q’s worries to rest.

“M says Thibault has spies everywhere. They may already be watching you, Bond. They could be watching the cabin, monitoring your activities.”

 _Ah_. He sighs and leaves the skis slumped against the wall, walking to the living room, sweating beneath insulated layers of gear: base layer, jacket, and boots. The goggles dig into his forehead as he stares at Q. “Worried a henchman is going to break in here and wring your little neck? I may just do the job myself.”

“I was assured you would be my personal security detail,” Q insists, adjusting his glasses to show how serious he is. “M said, if I was to agree to this assignment, you would be here at all times.”

Bond is so enormously annoyed that he laughs, gesturing helplessly to his skis. “Don’t suppose you want to hit the slopes?”

Q looks appalled. “I most certainly do not.”

 

* * *

 

He builds a fire because Q keeps rubbing his hands together and is clearly chilly. Sitting on the concrete lip of the fireplace, he tosses in crumpled balls of newspaper until the flames are robust, then replaces the iron screen, and steps back to admire his work. When he turns, Q is not fondly gazing at the achievement, but rather frowning at his computer screen. “What’s the situation?” he asks, walking back to the sitting area and perching upon a chair. “Network not secure?”

“Not in the slightest,” Q mumbles. “M was right. We can’t possibly risk standard online communication or telephone calls. We’re going to have to revert back to more traditional means.”

Bond perks up because _traditional means_ are his specialty. Q notices and his mood darkens. “I thought you were the inventor of the little program they’re using. Can’t you just…build something better? Outwit them?”

“It’s not a party trick,” he scoffs, “This program took me ages to write. I can’t whip up something better overnight.”

He leans back and the gun’s handle digs into his spine. Bond removes it and places it on the table. “You see, this is when old fossils like me are valuable. Those _traditional means_ you discussed? I’m rather an expert.” He’s busy being smug and doesn’t notice Q’s grown pale until the young man swallows thickly and stares at the gun. Bond blinks and follows the trajectory of Q’s stare, brow furrowed because he can’t imagine why the sight of a gun would bother him. After all, Q branch issues all types of weapons to field agents—then it occurs to him: Q’s never seen one of his little toys in the field. Monitoring the status of guns from the safety of MI6 is one thing, but Q has never been in the line of danger before, even though they’re relatively safe right now, enjoying a luxury resort on the government’s bill. Bond leans forward until Q looks at him instead of the weapon. “Nothing is going to happen. No one knows you’re here, and if someone tries to come in here, I’ll put a bullet between his eyes.”

Q smiles faintly and goes back to typing away on the keyboard.

 

* * *

 

The cabin is two levels: bedroom upstairs, so Bond sleeps on the second level’s king-size bed whilst Q slumbers on the living room couch. He awakes early the next day, and stumbling around in his boxer shorts, makes a cup of tea in the kitchen. Q must have turned the heat up in the middle of the night because downstairs is quite balmy, making his attire suitable, even though Q is mad and still wearing the clothes he arrived in. The youth must have no iron in his blood whatsoever.

The carafe slips from his hand and clatters noisily agains the counter, and a moment later Q’s voice drifts from the living room: “Take a tranquilizer or something, will you?”

Bond smirks and adds a dollop of honey to his tea. The suggestion is fair enough: he’s been pacing around the cabin like a caged lion for over twelve hours, unaccustomed to being cooped up like this, strictly forbidden to explore and indulge in native fruit. Well, he hasn’t been forbidden, exactly, but whenever he imagines leaving the cabin, a knot twists in his stomach, and if experience has taught him nothing else, it’s to obey his gut.

He’s promised Q he won’t leave, so he’ll be staying put until M calls.

“Good morning,” he cheerily replies, carrying the cup of tea into the living room. Q’s hair is a disaster atop his head, pointing every which way as he blearily blinks. Bond watches in amusement as he gropes around for his glasses before locating them on the floor, the spectacles perched a tad askew as he sits up and looks around, as if refamiliarizing himself with where he is and what’s happened. “You know, you don’t have to sleep wearing all your clothes. This isn’t a monastery.”

Q shoots him a poisonous look and Bond smirks. “Forgive me for not immediately adapting to your hedonistic lifestyle—what time is it? Oh, hell,” he mutters, upon flipping open the laptop and typing in his password. “I told M I’d check in an hour ago.”

“He would have rung if anything happened,” Bond remarks, crossing his legs and sipping the tea. Perfect temperature. Honey melting on his tongue. Not a bad way to make a living, even if there’s now no chance he’ll have a tumble with the blonde ski instructor.

As if reading his mind, Q sighs and glances up at him: “I don’t want to keep you here. I’m sure you’re right about what you said before. You can go. I’ll be fine.” Clattering of fingers on keys fills the space between them as Bond watches him. Q is quite capable, arguably one of the smartest people Bond has ever met, but he does have his weaknesses. He looks pale and his hands quiver slightly. The young man is wildly out of his depths in the field, but Bond doesn’t feel like pointing that out for some reason.

“Nah, never liked skiing much anyway,” Bond replies, wrinkling his nose to show how much disdain he has for L’aile de l'ange’s glorious slopes.

Q stops typing and looks at him, for a moment looking very young and earnest: “Really?”

“Yes, forty minutes of waiting for a few seconds of action. Too bloody cold out anyway,” he casually answers, standing and walking back into the kitchen to pour more hot water across the silk pouch of crushed herbs.

 

* * *

 

Bond supposes not feeding Q would be a form of neglect (and M will have his head if he allows MI6’s biggest brain to starve to death), so he rings the front desk and requests the entire room service menu, since he is unsure what Q consumes for sustenance. He’s never seen the young man eat, they’re not chummy outside of work, and asking is off the table because any time he interrupts computer time,Q nearly takes his head off.

Q stares in confusion as a procession of hotel workers dressed in white uniforms parades into the cabin, wheeling carts and carrying trays. “Are you out of your mind?” he growls, quietly, so only Bond can hear the threatening tone, “They could be spies.”

He thrusts his hands into the deep pockets of the plush robe and smirks. “Oh, don’t be paranoid.” Bond nods to the French-speaking workers, placing a €100 bill into one of the employee’s hands. They set up a delicious-looking spread and then depart, never uttering a word. “Help yourself to whatever you like.” He plucks a plate from the cart and serves a scoop of foie gras. “You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in ages.”

Q plucks a bottle of wine off the cart and eyes it suspiciously. “MI6 is paying for this?”

Luckily, his back is to the young man so Q doesn’t see him roll his eyes as he serves some quinoa salad onto the plate. “All standard, I assure you. Employees must eat and what not."

“Bond, there must be thousands of euros worth of food here. That’s hardly reasonable given—“

He turns and offers his best diplomatic smile. “I won’t tell if you don’t. Now, eat up.”

They’re able to enjoy the food in peace once Q discovers the lamb, which he piles onto a plate in impressive stacks. The youth does have an appetite after all, but must be the owner of an over-active metabolism because he eats and eats, and Bond is sure he won’t gain any weight. “I grew thirty centimeters in six months when I was a lad,” he comments between forkfuls, again reading the very thought cycling through Bond’s mind. It’s eerie how he does that. “My knees got all knobby and hurt from the growth spurt. I was so gangly. It was terrible,” Q chuckles.

Bond is full, the plate resting empty on the table as he reclines on the couch and smiles faintly, picturing it: Q, even skinnier, shy, cleverer than his schoolmates (and worse, not afraid to project it). Many would still describe Q in those unflattering terms, but Bond has noticed his broad shoulders and five o’clock shadow. He’s not a boy. A prodigy, yes, baby-faced, certainly, but not a boy. He’s not sure what to say. Bond didn’t have an awkward phase. He segued from being a strong lad to a strong young man into a feared secret agent. Vulnerability is foreign to him.

“More time to focus on your gadgets,” he offers.

Q shoves another strip into his mouth and nods, cheek bulging as he chews and swallows. “Gadgets, studies, I was always top of my class. So…” he waves his fork through the air, “I got it into my head that I was going to work for MI6, and once that became my goal, there was no turning back.” He straightens a bit, plucking the words from the ether, “ _Anything the mind of man can conceive and believe, it can be achieved._ ”

Bond hums. “Napoleon Hill,” and grins at the surprised look on his face, “I studied American literature. Of course I know Hill.”

“Oh…I didn’t know. I wasn’t—“ He stops talking and offers a tight-lipped smile. “I assumed all the Double-Os are born in pods.” Pardon comes in the form of Bond laughing and standing to fetch the bottle of wine. Time for a drink. “It’s noon,” Q calls to his back.

“So it is,” he answers, rummaging for a corkscrew in the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

He spends the afternoon watching Q get progressively tipsier. Mind you, it doesn’t take much. By the second glass of wine, he sheds the sweater and unfastens the top two buttons of his collared shirt, flushed and disheveled in a way Bond has never seen before. It’s fascinating, to be honest. Bond observes him as an ornithologist might an exotic bird in the wild. Meanwhile, it’s virtually impossible for him to get drunk on wine—that is the job of hard alcohol, but he supposes one of them should keep their faculties sharp in case M calls.

“I’ve never shot one before.” Bond realizes Q is gazing at his gun, which is resting on the coffee table because he’s yet to change out of his robe. What’s the point when they’re unsure of how long they’re going to be held up? If he’s to be locked inside a cabin, he’ll damn well be comfortable. 

A vision of the blonde ski instructor passes through his mind and he clears his throat, turning back to their conversation. “You can shoot if, if you want. I’ve a silencer upstairs. You can shoot it from the balcony.”

He’s only joking and Q laughs, shaking his head at the absurd idea. It’s a full-throated, goofy noise that makes Bond smile. He’s never seen Q with his defenses down like this. “Imagine, if that was how we blew our cover? M would have an aneurism.” A noise that Bond can only describe as a giggle escapes his mouth before Q shakes his head. “Anyway, I’m scared of ‘em. Guns. Hate the noise. S’why I never go to the range at MI6.”

Squinting, Bond mentally leafs through his time at the range, and no, he can’t recall ever seeing Q near a weapon or gun as it was detonating. “I hated them too. When I was a boy. I learned by shooting a rifle, and the kick knocked me over the first time.” He smiles, eyes gleaming at the memory. “You get over it, like anything else. Practice, practice, practice.”

The confession is worth it because Q laughs again, slapping the table in a drunkenly over-animated gesture. Bond chuckles and tops off his glass. “I don’t believe it. I can’t imagine it…you, as a child, I mean. You’ve always been so…” Q trails off, searching for the word, and Bond doesn’t know if the darkening of his cheeks is from the alcohol or embarrassment that he’s being so candid. “You seem infallible.” 

There’s a moment of silence that stretches a bit too long and Q lowers his gaze, which is when something clicks into place in Bond’s mind. He’s never considered Q’s personal life, just as he’s never pondered the at-home lives of any of his colleagues. But now, sitting here, yes, he can tell his colleague’s intimate interests stray towards the male side of the gender continuum. Bond clears his throat and flashes another smile, just to show no damage has been done. He wants to give Q the option of a graceful exit. “I am as much flesh and blood as the next man, I assure you.”

Q buries his flushed face in the glass, taking a generous gulp before his red mouth answers: “Quite.”

It’s flattering, in a way, to know a young person in his prime desires him, and yes, Bond has dabbled with male sexual partners in the past. Life is long and he’s an international man of intrigue, so it would have been staggeringly myopic _not_ to embrace such possibilities. And Q is strangely beautiful, if he allowed himself a moment to ponder such things, which he does not. He finishes his drink, says goodnight, and leaves Q to lick his wounds when he awakes a few hours later, sober and slightly humiliated.

He’s pleasantly buzzed, the perfect nightcap to usher him swiftly to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He awakes an hour later when Q’s desperate shouts flood the bedroom: “James! James!”

There’s a bang and shout, and Bond flies out of bed, grabbing his gun from the bedside table, and charging down the steps. It’s dark downstairs, but he sees the front door standing ajar and the outline of a man standing near the couch, looming over Q, who is curled into a frightened ball. “Step back!” he shouts, voice clear and commanding despite being half-awake. He trains the gun on the invader, pointing the barrel at the middle of the bloke’s back. Because he’s turned away, Bond does not expect the rapid turn, nor the charge, and certainly not the double-leg takedown that leaves him sprawled on his back, air knocked from his lungs. He recovers a second later, just as the bloke stands, and Bond sweeps out his legs from under him. The other man shouts when he hits the floor, immediately turning to lunge again, but Bond leaps onto his back and secures his neck in a choke hold, squeezing, gradually depriving the man’s brain of oxygen as he gasps one word over and over. Bond can’t make out what he’s saying until he tilts an ear closer to his mouth.

“Eames…it’s…Eames.”

No one can see him roll his eyes in the dark. He releases him, climbing to his feet as Eames remains on hands and knees, gasping for breath. “Why the hell didn’t you _say_ something?” Bond snarls, stalking over to the door to close it again. Now that he examines the entrance, he sees there is no sign of forced entry. Eames picked the lock and let himself in. “Or _ring the bell_?” he adds, walking back to the living room. Eames is standing, straightening his jacket and tie. When Bond flips on the lights, he sees the other man is flushed and Q’s face is still a mask of horror.

“I bloody well _did_ ring it,” the other Brit barks. “No one answered! And I didn’t _say_ anything because a lunatic MI6 agent charged down the steps, waving around a gun. I thought you were going to kill me where I stood.”

Bond winces. Right. So they were passed out, lulled into a deep slumber by alcohol, and didn’t hear the man’s arrival.

“Bond, who is this?” Q finally speaks.

He flips on the gun’s safety and gestures towards the other man. “This is Eames. He used to serve in MI6 and is now something of a freelance contractor.”

Eames buttons his jacket and flashes a polite smile Q’s way. “I’m sorry I frightened you. I thought you were 007. No one informed me that there was anyone else stationed here.”

Bond hums. There’s a lot of that going around. “M didn’t inform us you were coming.” For the first time, he notices the steel briefcase resting on the floor by the couch. “You’re joking. I knew M wanted to be more hands on with Thibault, but surely not—“

Eames sighs and offers his hands palms-up. “Why else would I be here, mate?”

During their banter, Q manages to find his glasses and is now scowling at them. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

His icy command temporarily distracts Eames, who glances back at him and smiles. “You know, you remind me of someone.”

 

* * *

 

They convene in the dining area—a room actually designated for eating that he and Q have yet to utilize. Q sits beside him and Eames occupies a seat across the way, steel briefcase resting on the table. Eames is distracted, as is his nature, looking around, drinking in the opulent details. “Not too shabby. Not too shabby at all,” he remarks. Bond is secretly glad there’s no fine cutlery located on the premises that could potentially and mysteriously disappear upon his departure. Eventually, he returns to earth, and casts a smile towards them, specifically towards Q, and drums his fingertips atop the case. “This is called a PASIV.”

Q processes the information. “Wait, _dreamshare_?” He looks at Bond, who emits a prolonged, pained sigh. “Are you joking? M brought in _dreamshare_ workers to—what?—nicely urge Thibault not to sell weapons to the enemy?”

“That’s the general idea, yes,” Eames replies, quite pleasant, given Q is insulting his entire profession.

“Why not consult a psychic?” Bond shoots a warning glance and Q looks at Eames, as if only just remembering he’s in the room, “I apologize. I’m sure you’re a very gifted….whatever, but dreamshare is an imprecise science, at best. Failure rates are sky-high and sometimes subjects are aware of the invasive procedure. Thibault could wake up and remember everything: our faces, what information we tried to change. This is madness.”

Eames looks completely unruffled. In fact, if Bond had to guess, he’d say the man looks rather delighted by the hostile interrogation. “That’s true. Very few people can do what I do, but I have a success rate of almost one hundred percent, and even the handful of cases in which I was not entirely successful, the subject was not aware I had been in their mind, and they could not later identify me.”

The presence of cold hard statistics diminishes Q’s outrage. “How many times have you failed?”

“Three times. Once when I was very green, my first year in dreamshare, the second time when a team member turned on us mid-job, and the third when I performed Inception for the first time. We planted the idea successfully, but it didn’t take.”

Q frowns, taking in the information. “How many times have you successfully incepted someone?”

“Six.” Eames’ brows quirk, and he flashes an almost imperceptible smirking glance Bond’s way. _He’s rather interesting_. Bond shakes his head, a silent warning. Eames has a reputation almost as infamous as Bond’s, though the targets of his interests are almost exclusively young men. 

Too distracted to notice, Q considers the situation, staring at the case. “Six, hm?” He finally snaps out of the daze and looks at Bond. “What do you think?”

Fingertips drum on the tabletop before he shrugs. “Order from M. It’s rather straight forward. MI6 thinks inception is the way to go, so that is our new objective.”

Despite Eames’ smug expression, Q doesn’t verbally agree to the plan until he’s at his computer, decrypting an already highly coded message from M that doesn’t mention agent names, or locations, or the word “inception,” and yet clearly conveys the message that they are to make this their new mission. He slowly closes his laptop and takes a deep, cleansing breath before nodding. “Inception it is.”

Eames claps him on the back. “Looks like we’re bunking together, mate.”

Bond frowns, watching Eames swagger across the living room, making his way towards the steps to no doubt inspect the living quarters. He almost suggests Q should share the bed instead (he’s smaller, less likely to take up too much space), but then remembers Q’s awkward drunken misstep. The last thing he needs is an earnest Q in his bed. What if something really sordid happened? What if Q made a desperate move, like climbing into bed nude? The thought inspires him to hurry after Eames, in case the man needs help settling in. He ignores the burn at his back that is undoubtedly Q staring at him in confusion during his hasty exit.

 

* * *

 

“What’s Q’s real name?” Eames inquires, having the nerve to offer an innocent expression, as though his motives are pure.

Bond folds his arms, reclined in the doorway, watching him mill about, touching things: the phone, curtains, testing the upper balcony door, which is locked. “Eames, no.”

Brows nearly arch off his forehead and Bond levels a frank expression his way. _Come now. How long have I known you?_ “I’m just being polite. He seems a tad green. Perhaps I can be a mentor.”

“With your cock.”

Eames barks with laughter. “That would be lovely too. Is he attached?”

“I’m serious, mate. Q’s off limits.”

 _Bugger_. His tone was too harsh and now Eames is interested. He smiles slowly, revealing crooked teeth. “Oh dear. Have I wandered into claimed territory?” Eames saunters back towards the door, the room and all its accoutrements forgotten now that Bond has slipped and shown his hand. He doesn’t have romantic desires for Q. What he feels is…it’s difficult to explain. Protectiveness. Fondness. 

“He’s too young.”

“That is entirely subjective, my friend. He’s of legal age,” Eames squints at him, “Isn’t he?”

Bond is almost offended. “ _Yes_.” Then realizes he’s shouldn’t have answered at all when Eames smiles. “Look, feel free to wag your cock all over the mountain, but leave him alone.”

They stare at one another, Bond feeling oddly exposed, and he’s not sure why. Maybe that Eames thinks he’s seen something that isn’t real, and Bond wants to argue with him about it, though that would be mad. Perhaps he’s simply projecting on the other man, but what insecurity is inspiring the paranoia? That he has some latent feelings for the young man seated downstairs? Eames is still eyeing him, so Bond offers his best icy look, which only makes Eames grin. “Good to see you again, James.”

 

* * *

 

Bond startles awake and springs to his feet when he sees Eames isn’t in bed. The bedside clock reads 9AM, and he jogs down the steps, and into the living room just as Eames waltzes out of the kitchen, carrying two platefuls of eggs and bacon. “Ah! Good morning. I whipped up a little breakfast for Q and myself, but I can easily prepare you a plate as well, if you’d like.” Like he’s Martha-bloody-Stewart. Bond blinks, standing there in his boxer shorts, then looks at Q, half-expecting to see some sign of distress or mauling. The young man is still wearing his collared shirt, though it’s very wrinkled, and his hair is mussed, but otherwise looks unmolested if not slightly confused.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

Nodding. “Fine. Just need a cup of tea.”

Out of principle, he rejects Eames’ offer to make him breakfast, resentfully watching the Brit park beside Q and chatter as they enjoy the scrambled eggs and bacon. Eames is a clever, charming bastard, and even Q falls for it, his inquisitive mind wanting to know all about dreamshare, and he offers the same bright laugh from their night of drinking, but this time in response to Eames’ jokes. And this time he’s sober. Bond glares across the coffee table. “Shouldn’t we be planning the job?”

Q looks at him in surprise. “Yes, of course, but I thought we could get to know each other first.”

It’s a thin cover and Bond’s tongue tastes foul in his mouth, like he sucked on a handful of pennies. “There’s nothing to know. We worked some jobs together when we were kids, now he’s here to provide assistance, and we need to figure out how we’re going to get Aimé Thibault away from his security detail and alone in a room long enough for Eames to get inside his head.”

“You knew Bond when he was a new agent?” Q asks Eames, completely ignoring what he’s just said.

Eames triumphantly smiles. “Ah, the tales I could tell you, my sweet.” Bond is coiled, ready to spring across the table, and Eames must sense this with self-preservation instincts because he winks at Q— _to be continued_ —and looks back to him. “You’re right, mate. We should focus on business. Enough chit chat, ay?” And because he’s a greedy man, winks one more time at Q, who opens like a flower under the light of his attention, smiling, never once looking at Bond for forgiveness or consultation.

 

* * *

 

They haven’t made any real progress—only having agreed they’ll need to grab Thibault during one of the rare instances he’s not held up in private quarters, perhaps on the slopes or in the main resort lodge. The two of them are finished eating and Eames suggests they do the washing up, and Q springs off the couch, eagerly picking up his plate. Bond silently seethes, announcing he’s going to take a shower, but neither of them say anything in response.

Instead, he sits there in silence, listening to the bass murmur of Eames’ voice. He’s speaking quietly and it’s impossible to make out specific words, which is why Bond stands and creeps closer to the kitchen’s entrance, concealing himself behind the wall so he can eavesdrop. Just to make sure Eames isn’t being fresh.

“When did you two meet?” Q asks over the sound of the sink’s running water and someone, probably Eames, scrubbing the plate.

“We were brand new recruits at MI6, immediately thrown into the thick of it because six agents were killed in an embassy attack in the Middle East. First job: assassination mission.” There’s a pause, and Bond is certain it’s for theatrical effect because he’s known Eames for many, many years. He can almost see Q’s look of suspense: eyes wide, neck craned slightly, imploring him to continue. “Of course, the whole thing went pear-shaped and we had to shoot our way out. I performed magnificently, not that I imagine you thought otherwise.” Q laughs on cue and Bond grits his teeth.

“And Bond?”

“Oh, a titan among men. He really is the best, you know. Truth be told, my talents resided elsewhere. I’m a bit of a hooligan, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t believe that. You seem perfectly respectable.”

“Well, you haven’t known me very long, pet,” Eames counters, voice pitched suggestively low.

Bond pushes off the wall and heads for the stairs. He doesn’t want to hear the rest of their conversation.

 

* * *

 

As soon as they begin the real process of planning the job, it becomes clear Eames will need assistance from another dreamshare expert. “I could do it alone,” he clarifies, for the sake of his ego and showing off in front of Q, “But for safety, someone should go under with me. An experienced dreamer.”

“Whom do you have in mind?” Bond asks.

Eames grins, chuckling as he tinkers with the PASIV and turns a very small screwdriver to tighten one of the internal parts. “An old friend of mine.”

That afternoon, someone knocks on the door in a succession of three assertive taps, and when Bond answers, there’s a man standing on the stoop. He has dark hair combed away from his pale face and an intense gaze that swiftly appraises him. “007, I presume.”

“In the flesh. Arthur.” It’s a statement, not a question, and the man nods once in confirmation as Bond steps aside and grants entry. He closes the door and watches Arthur walk further into the anteroom, the long dark trench coat billowing before he pauses to examine the staircase and the sunken living room. Q and Eames are washing up after lunch, and their voices drift from the kitchen. Bond can’t quite peg his age. His face looks young, but he’s greying slightly at the temples. At any rate, Eames gave him a stirring recommendation, so they must have been colleagues for many years.

Arthur calls the other Brit’s name and Eames emerges from the kitchen a moment later, drying his hands on a towel. “Ah, darling! You made it.”

Q is close behind, but rushes past him once he sets eyes on their visitor. “Mr. Levine. It is such an honor, _an honor_ , to meet you, sir.” He sticks out a hand and Arthur eyes it for a moment before looking past the youth to Eames, who nods encouragingly, and Arthur smirks, accepting the hand and shaking it weakly. Q manages to completely miss the slight. “All of Q branch owes you a great debt. You’re considered one of the pioneers of advanced coding. When I was a teenager, you were something of a legend, one of the first hackers to breach the Pentagon, but…you know that,” he trails off, smiling shyly.

“When you were a teenager. When was that, last week?” Arthur grins and Q graciously laughs. “Jesus, I feel old. Well, we’d better get started, yes?” He glances back to Bond, who nods in agreement, and Eames smirks.

“Something told me you wouldn’t be up for chit chat.”

Arthur unbuttons his jacket and slides out of it, neatly draping it across a chair back. He pops the cuffs of his shirt open and rolls up the sleeves. “I’ve been on a plane the past ten hours, racing towards a job for which I have been given zero intel. I’d like someone to catch me up to speed.”

He likes the newest addition to their team. There’s something about Arthur’s brutal efficiency that reminds him of the best parts of the military: deadly precision, diligent focus. Now that Arthur’s here, Eames will have less time to color outside the lines and mark Q as his territory. 

Q fetches tea for them and Arthur turns the coffee table into mission control, flipping open his briefcase and laying out hard copies for them to read. “No more digital communications. Only hard copies from this moment forward,” he explains. On the flight over, he’s handwritten a bullet point list, a sort of rough plan for how they can isolate Thibault. “Did you know L’aile de l'ange has submitted plans for an aggressive expansion? They’re going to bulldoze sixteen acres of Arolla pine trees. Some of them are very old.”

Eames noisily slurps his tea. “Why should I care about trees, darling?”

Arthur’s eyes gleam excitedly, and Bond reassesses his age estimate, knocking a few years off. “Because environmentalists have been protesting L’aile de l'ange, particularly the resort’s owner, Henry Babineau. This weekend, Thibault is scheduled to give a big speech here at the resort. All types of CEOs will be in attendance and Babineau will be here too. I propose we grab Babineau and Thibault, incapacitate their security, and perform inception on Thibault. We can leave some sort of pro-environmentalist graffiti, so when they wake, they’ll think our target was Babineau, and the whole thing was some sort of aborted abduction.”

Bond’s legs are crossed, the foot rotating in slow circles, stretching muscles and ligaments as he listens. Admittedly, it’s a clever little ruse, and Eames appears to agree, grinning brightly and declaring, “Brilliant! You see? I knew Arthur would bring the goods.”

“How do you propose we deal with the security?” he interjects, particularly interested in that bit of planning since it’s his forte.

“However you normally deal with bad, armed men,” Arthur cooly replies, offering a smirk. 

Bond smirks back, eyeing him a moment longer. Funnily, he can no longer recall the alluring particulars of the skiing instructor, the shape of her mouth and swell of her rear dissolving, dissipating like sand particles in the wind. He leans forward, regarding Arthur and Arthur alone. “I trust you’ll be there, hm? Offering backup?”

Arthur considers the papers spread across the table before him, detached and uninterested in Bond’s flirting. That makes him all the more appealing. “Naturally. I’ll be entering the dream with Mr. Eames. And Q, we’ll need you there to monitor the PASIV and wake us if we exhibit any signs of distress.”

The young man swallows thickly. “Really? I thought…I’d…You really need me in the field when it’s happening?”

Bond’s attention temporarily diverts from Arthur’s dispassionate profile. “I’ll be there,” he tells Q, hoping that will provide a little comfort. Normally, treating Q with kid gloves would result in the youth brisling, but they are far from the appraising eyes of their MI6 colleagues, and it is perhaps for that reason that Q doesn’t reject the offer, but instead smiles slightly, clearly grateful for the life preserver Bond has offered. It’s a different look, one he’s never seen on the young man’s face before: vulnerable, perhaps a little tender.

“Good!” Eames crows, shattering the moment, “So that’s settled then…” The comment is directed at no one, but that’s the point. Eames is throwing a fit, perhaps annoyed that Q is no longer lavishing him with his undivided attention. If it wouldn’t be so terribly gauche, Bond would do a little dance of celebration. _You’re not the only charmer here, mate_.

For the first time in many minutes, Arthur looks up from the papers and stares at his colleague. “Eames. A moment, please.”

 

* * *

 

Eames knows how to spot an incoming lecture, so he does everything in his power to delay the inevitable. Arthur ushers them out onto the wide verandah, and he fishes a semi-crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering it to Arthur even though he knows the man doesn’t smoke. He’s hoping the gesture will result in a different lecture, one about his health, but Arthur doesn’t take the bait. 

“Have you completely lost your capacity to feel shame?”

A brow arches as he lights a slightly bent cigarette. “Of course.” What in the world made Arthur think otherwise?

It only occurs to him a moment later that Arthur isn’t just annoyed. He’s upset, as indicated by the way he rubs at his face and swipes a hand across his hair, forcing the normally unruly locks to remain somewhat organized. “How old is he?” He almost laughs, but the sound is not marshaled by joy. 

No need to dance around the issue any further. Eames takes a mighty drag, “He’s legal,” and exhales a stream of smoke into the obnoxiously pristine Alpine air.  He imagines a small yellow flower on some mountainside slowly wilting and dying as a consequence.

“Oh, superb. He’s legal, so I guess it’s okay.” Arthur isn’t wearing a coat, but he’s flushed in the face. Eames can’t remember the last time the man was this angry, but why? Eames’ working reputation has always been somewhat spotty, but Arthur has always weathered his quirks with equal parts good humor and condescension. “You keep getting older, but your targets stay the same age. You’re so transparent. It’s pathetic.”

The words cut deep, but Eames refuses to let it show on his face. He simply shrugs and takes another drag, ashing over the balcony. His sexual conquests have never been an issue before, or perhaps they have been, but Arthur kept his feelings to himself. Why the change now? He feels slightly ridiculous when the reason dawns in his mind, bright, enormous, hovering as conspicuously as the sun. “Oh, darling,” he chuckles. “Jealous that you’ve found me pining for another slender brunette?”

It’s a testimony to how right he is, and the gravity of the situation, that Arthur doesn’t counter with sharp wit. “Fuck you,” he snarls and marches back inside.

 

* * *

 

The whole plan needs to be approved by M, who will no doubt have notes and various concerns that he will relay back to Q using insufferably opaque codes that only the young man can decipher. It’s the eighth consecutive day that Bond will not be permitted to stretch his legs outside the cabin, but at least Arthur provides a bit of entertainment. The man is clearly brilliant, quick-witted, and it turns out they have several mutual associates. Arthur also likes whisky and drinks it steadily, without wincing, which Bond finds particularly alluring.

Not that he can pursue such interests, mind you. Their quarters are too cramped, and he’s keeping one eye on Q at all times in case Eames tries to pull a fast one. But in the meantime, he enjoys walking the narrow line between harmless flirtation and grave inappropriateness, and a vast wealth of experience tells him Arthur enjoys the attention. There’s a riff between him and Eames, one that Bond does not fully understand, but it’s presented an opportunity to lavish Arthur with what is clearly very badly needed appreciation.

“Do you know Joseph Boren?” Arthur asks, swirling the amber liquid.

Bond grins toothily. “Of course I know Boren, but you’re too young to know him, aren’t you? He was MI6 way back in the day when he and I were still wet behind the ears.”

Arthur is lovely and flushed from the alcohol or perhaps the compliment. “I’ve been around longer than you think. A long, long time,” he amends, gaze far away for a second before offering an apologetic smile, “There’s a whole new generation in dreamshare now. They say I’m a legend, which I guess is supposed to be a compliment, but it just makes me feel ancient.”

“You’re not married?”

Arthur laughs as though the very idea is absurd. Bond knows the feeling. “Hell no. That wouldn’t be fair to…whoever I would marry. I’m always traveling.”

They’re seated in the dining room, the half-empty bottle resting between them on the table. Bond glances at the crystal chandelier, frowning thoughtfully. “What about someone who works in dreamshare? They would surely understand the demand. You’d have common interests…”

There it is: a wince of sadness. Bingo. He likes Arthur, so there is no inner celebration that he’s pinned down the source of drama: unrequited love. “Uh, no. That gets very…” Alcohol has dulled his mind, nudged the word just out of reach, “Complicated. Things are neater this way.”

Bond feels sad for him, and he doesn’t like the feeling, so he tops off their drinks and offers a saucy grin. “Nothing a couple drinks can’t fix, ay?”

Arthur raises the glass. “Cheers to that.”

 

* * *

 

The problem is the ceiling is too high, cavernous space absorbing sound. No matter how close Eames strays to the dining room entrance, he can’t hear what the devil Bond is saying to Arthur. He nearly leaps out of his Borgiolis when Q appears behind him and says, “Mr. Eames?” Eames clutches his chest and Q frowns, concerned, gently touching his arm, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, dear boy.” He smiles, tight-lipped, and guides Q over to the living room by the small of his back. The touch happens before coherent thought, but upon realizing what’s happened, he enjoys the firmness of Q’s back, the dip just above his rear (and warmth radiating beneath the shirt), and Eames forgets all about traitorous Bond and Arthur’s tête-à-tête. “I want to hear more about you. How did a lovely creature like you fall in with such degenerates at MI6?”

Reflexively, the youth opens his laptop and checks the secure network for news from home office. When he laughs, flustered, Eames decides there mustn’t be an update. “Not a very interesting story, I’m afraid. I’m good with computers, always have been, and research and development seemed like a promising career.” 

Arthur’s laughter emanates from the dining room, catalyzing Eames into leaning forward, edging into Q’s personal space. “You’re far too sharp for the likes of them. You should join us. I guarantee you’ll make more money.”

Q smiles and shakes his head. “Oh no. That’s not for me. I’m normally never in the field. And dreamshare…it’s too unstable. I have a flat in London, just paid off my student debt, it’s not glamorous, but it’s steady.”

More infuriating laughter from the dining room. Eames extends a hand and runs his fingertips across Q’s wrist. “Then give me your home address so I can visit you after this.”

A bold move, already worth the final cost when Q flushes, but doesn’t pull away. “Mr. Eames…” That stirs something in him, unpacking an ancient, hidden desire he doesn’t care to look at too closely. “We shouldn’t…” The youth glances at the dining room and Eames takes his meaning.

“Go upstairs. I’ll wait a minute and follow.”

Young men crave order and discipline, and Q is no different, the Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and stands, walking directly to the stairs. _Good boy_. Eames’ chest swells victoriously. At least there’s one brunette on which his magic still works. He counts to sixty in his head, stands, and follows.

 

* * *

 

At some point, they stop drinking, Arthur straddles his lap, and they begin making out with abandon. Not that Bond is complaining. It all feels a bit like a dream, his mind hazy from alcohol, gorgeous Arthur writhing again him, firm and furness hot beneath his designer layers. He’s a good kisser, demanding while being accommodating, occasionally nipping and biting, which grants Bond permission to grip his rear and pull him close so their hip bones connect and the outline of Arthur’s cock grinds along his pelvis. “Christ, you’re beautiful,” Bond gasps against Arthur’s swollen mouth.

“Say I don’t look old. Say what you said before,” Arthur gasps, now grinding without shame, and _bloody hell_. What did he say before? Bond can’t remember, but he doesn’t want Arthur to stop, so he desperately rifles through the memories of recent past.

“I said…” He inhales sharply when Arthur reaches down to cup his cock, which is rapidly hardening. They’re going to have to relocate somewhere else. Maybe he can fuck Arthur on the balcony. “You have one of those…ageless faces. You’re timeless.”

Their mouths crash together, rough and delicious and Bond growls deep in his throat, giving Arthur’s rear a firm swat. “The other thing…say the other thing,” he begs, writhing in Bond’s arms.

If he wasn’t being so incredibly sexy, Bond would roll his eyes. That was all he said, dammit. At least, he thought that was the case. Ageless face. Timeless. What else? _Fucking hell_. His head lolls back when Arthur strokes his cock through the material of his slacks. Suddenly, a word flashes in his mind, the only other thing that left his mouth. If this isn’t what Arthur wants to hear, he’s out of luck: “Darling…”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Arthur growls, kissing him so hard the chair nearly tips backwards.

 

* * *

 

Q stands by the bed, fingers nervously wriggling at his sides.

“You’ve done this before, yeah?” Eames shuts the door behind him and leans against it. He’s all for a good time, but there are limits. He doesn’t want to be anyone’s memory of their first time.

“Of course,” Q responds, offended, and the flare of annoyance interests Eames, so he grins and slowly approaches him. 

“Good. Just checking,” he whispers, cupping Q’s face, and leaning in to kiss him. Once. Only to test the waters.

Q’s mouth is soft and pliant, opening slightly to emit a sweet sigh, but his fingers grip Eames’ hands, peeling them away. “Wait…” His eyes are worried behind their lenses, so Eames obeys. He’s not here to manipulate or coerce. If Q doesn’t want him, he’s not going to force himself on the lad. 

Reading people is his speciality, so he does just that: “Is there someone else?”

The hesitation speaks volumes. Q’s gaze drops to the carpet and he sighs, embarrassed, perhaps a little concerned he might anger Eames. “Yes, but he isn’t interested in me…in the same way.”

“He’s a fool,” Eames answers, tipping up his chin to kiss him again. This time, the response is more enthusiastic, Q gripping his shoulders, hanging on for dear life as he cups his slender waist, delighting in the commanding way he can hold the lad. He imagines gripping his hips and fucking him from behind. But when his fantasy Q glances backwards, he has Arthur’s face. _Enough, dammit._ Eames’ hands slide under the hem of his shirt, cupping the small of his back and pulling him close. Q arches his back, pressing into his chest, which unlocks something basic and primal inside Eames, who nearly lifts him off the ground as he pushes him backwards and pins him to the wall. Q’s head hits the wooden planks too roughly, rattling the dresser and overturning a vase that falls against the floor, but does not break. “Sorry…sorry,” he whispers against his lips.

“I’m fine. I’m all right,” Q pants, glasses slightly askew, pulling him into another embrace.

 

* * *

 

There’s a loud thud upstairs, powerful enough to vibrate the chandelier, and Bond instantly separates from Arthur. “That bloody…” he growls and stands, Arthur’s superior reflexes preventing him from toppling over. 

“What? What’s wrong?” he gasps, breathless, but Bond is already storming from the dining room.

The living room is indeed empty, so he breaks into a sprint, flies up the stairs and throws open the bedroom door that is thankfully unlocked. Otherwise, he would have had to break down the damn thing. Eames is crowded against Q, almost obscuring him entirely, and Bond charges across the room and grips the man’s shoulders, heaving him to the floor before either of them can react. Q lets out a delayed, “James!” as he straddles Eames’ supine body and punches him square in the face.

“You bastard,” he growls, winding up for another shot, but Eames suddenly bucks beneath him, toppling them over, and before Bond can get his bearings, socks him across the jaw. Q cries for them to stop, and tries to grip Bond’s arm, but he may as well be trying to leash a rabid bull. Bond dives for Eames again, taking his legs out from under him, and they crash to the floor.

“Stop it!” Arthur shouts, leaping onto Bond’s back and sinking in the very choke he’d used on Eames’ their first night in the cabin. Cosmic karma. He claws at Arthur’s arm, but the choke is in too deep, executed too precisely, like everything else the man does. The lights dim. _Stop it! He’ll go unconscious!_ Q’s voice. Objecting. Arthur releases him suddenly, just before he goes out, and he sucks in a deep breath, skin burning hot as the circulation comes back. Slowly, he registers details: Q huddled against the wall, terrified, Eames cradling his right eyes, curled up beside the foot of the bed, Arthur’s furious face. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I told you!” he barks, pointing at Eames, “I told you, Q is off limits!”

Eames blearily blinks, looking from Bond to a very disheveled Arthur, his tie loosened, collar unbuttoned, cheeks ruddy. Bond winces the second he puts the pieces together. “Oh ho! That’s bloody _rich_ coming from you, mate! What the hell were you two up to downstairs, ay?” When his hand drops away, the eye is swollen shut, already reddening at the beginning of the bruising process.

Arthur scowls at him. “That’s _none_ of your business, Eames!”

“My thoughts exactly,” Q sighs, pushing off the wall, only sparing him a passing glance. “I’m not a child, James. Stop treating me like one.” He opens his mouth to respond, but just then Q’s laptop chirps from downstairs and he swears, racing from the room. “That’ll be M!”

 

* * *

 

The plan is approved. Q announces this when they’re gathered in the living room, Eames pressing a paper towel sack full of ice to his eye. Arthur quietly considers the news from a chair, and Bond stands on the ledge of the anteroom, observing them from the perch. What a mess. At least the prospect of a job will temporarily distract them from the tragic series of awkward encounters. 

They only have a couple days before Thibault’s grand speech at the resort, and already Q says he’s picking up all kinds of chatter about various wealthy figures and diplomats who are rumored to be arriving on the premises. Arthur produces schematics and blueprints from who knows where of the conference room and ancillary hallways, office spaces, and bathrooms. “Thibault and Babineau will be escorted through the kitchen and enter through this door by the stage. They’ll probably exit the same way too.”

“How can you be sure?” Eames asks. Now that the swelling has gone down, a dark purple ring circles his eye. Bond feels a strong throb of satisfaction every time he sees it.

“Instinct and a bluff. I called the kitchen, posing as security, and asked if the chefs and cooks were prepared for the standard protocol of us escorting Mr. Thibault and Mr. Babineau through the facilities, and they said yes.”

“Risky,” Bond remarks.

Arthur spares him a glance, more than he’s gotten in hours, so perhaps his anger is diminishing. “We grab them here,” he says, pointing to the corridor just behind the stage. “We can do the job in this bathroom. Q, you’ll stay up top with the bathroom door locked, and Bond will parole the perimeter to make sure no one suspects anything. There will be six guards we’ll have to handle.”

“And how do you suggest we do that without attracting quite a bit of attention?” Eames asks. He picks up a tumbler of whisky on the rocks and holds the cool glass to his face.

Bond smirks. “Three of us against six of them. Two blokes per agent. Surely you’ve faced worse odds.”

“Incapacitate them swiftly and silently. Try not to kill them. M says we should try to keep this neat. I’ll chloroform Thibault and Babineau,” Arthur casually announces, folding up the blueprints.

He quietly mulls that over. Arthur certainly emits confidence, but he can’t imagine a scenario where hand-to-hand combat with six men doesn’t cause quite a bit of noise. “What about Fentanyl?” Arthur shoots him a sharp look and he shrugs innocently, “We release it into the ether, disorient them, then incapacitate them. Odds are better.”

“Fentanyl is a chemical agent,” Arthur scoffs. “It can kill people.”

“I’m not saying we use _a lot_. Just enough to throw them off kilter. Then you make the grab.”

He’s partially shot down Arthur’s plan, annoyance expressed in the prissy way he creases the blueprints. “We’d need gas masks, on top of access to fentanyl, which last I checked, they don’t sell in the gift shop.”

Eames’ face suddenly brightens. “Yusuf!”

Arthur must have sensed it coming because he simultaneously throws the blueprints down on the coffee table and shouts: “No!”

 

* * *

 

“Remind me never to be in your debt, mate. Bloody hell. I thought you’d wait a few months to cash in on that favor. And I’d just like to state, for the record, that me securing your deadly accoutrements and flying fourteen hours is more valuable than the paltry six grand you fronted me in my hour of need.”

Eames smirks, accepting the duffle bag from Yusuf. “Those loan sharks wanted your balls.” Yusuf grumbles something that might be begrudging agreement. “How’d you get it through security?”

“Some agents owed me a favor. Everyone is in everyone else’s debt, my friend. Ah, you must be Bond,” he says, sticking out a hand.

Yusuf sports a pair of sunglasses to shield his eyes from the sun’s bright glare on the snowy hills and an oversized winter jacket. His accent is watered down, the hallmark of an expat. Bond shakes his hand. “We appreciate the assistance. Are you in town long? We could use another set of hands to help out.”

“Ah, no, afraid not. Besides, I don’t want to cramp your style. Something tells me I would not be welcome on your little outing.” Arthur appears at the edge of the living room just then. “Speak of the devil. Arthur! How are you?”

“Yusuf,” he greets, chilly.

All the noise coaxes Q away from his laptop and he arrives a second later, Yusuf’s face reflecting not a little surprise. “Why, hello young man!” They exchange greetings and Yusuf eyes him a moment longer before smirking in Eames’ direction. “Arthur _and_ this one? You must be in heaven, mate.”

“Oh yeah,” the Brit smirks, waving at his marred face, “I’m living the dream.”

“I’m getting a drink,” Arthur announces, while Q blushes and very much looks as though he’d like to dissolve through the wooden floor’s planks.

 

* * *

 

Yusuf departs soon after, they solidify the plan, and eventually have to deal with the tricky subject of another night of sleeping arrangements. Following all the drama and shenanigans, the relatively simple subject matter is transformed into a quagmire of potential faux pas. Q sharing his bed is certainly out of the question, as is the possibility of a romp with Arthur. And while Eames isn’t his favorite person in the world right now, it makes the most sense to bunk with him again, even though things are now much tenser between them. “It’s a big bed,” he offers. They won’t even know each other are there.

The fight is over, and they are men, which means Eames shrugs and accepts the arrangement. 

Arthur announces he’ll share the couch with Q. “We can sleep head-to-foot. It’s wide enough for both of us,” and Q agrees.

So it’s settled, but no less uncomfortable when they retire and he’s sprawled beneath the covers in his boxer shorts, warily watching Eames as the man joins him. It’s very strange to be bunking with the bloke whose eye he blackened mere hours earlier. Bond doesn’t even have the energy to go over tomorrow’s plan in his mind because he’s anchored to the present by the odd arrangement. Once Eames is in place and comfortable, he leans over and switched off the bedside lamp.

Silence, and then Eames speaks: “Why didn’t you _tell me_?”

Bond sighs. “It’s complicated. I’m not even sure what I would have said. Why didn’t you tell me about Arthur?”

Eames snorts. “Nothing to tell, mate. I had a…fixation, but it went away years ago. Or I thought it did. But then I saw him again, and I don’t know…I thought perhaps it was something I created in my mind to amuse me during dull jobs, but it’s more serious.”

They’re quiet again, each lost in their respective thoughts, darkness creating the illusion of privacy. Bond is reminded of a Catholic confession, confiding his deepest, darkest secrets to a man who will keep them because of their assured mutual destruction. “You should talk to Arthur. There’s something going on. He’s upset, Eames.”

He’s known the man long enough to picture the accompanying expression that matches the wince in his voice: “I know. I’ve made a mess of things.”

A sliver of light filters through the split between the curtains, snow-capped mountains absorbing moonlight and reflecting it back.

“You and me both, mate.”

 

* * *

 

The morning of the job, Arthur and Q are already awake and milling about the living room and kitchen by the time the two of them descend from the second level. Everyone is dressed and Arthur looks more laser-focused than usual, no small feat. He glances at them and goes back to examining the itinerary issued by the resort. “We leave at 14:00 hours. In positions at 14:30. Thibault speaks at 15:00. We make the grab at 15:30. Eames and I will need at least fifteen minutes to plant the idea.”

“What’s the idea?” Bond asks.

Eames’ face lights up. “ _I must preserve my legacy._ ”

A grid of neatly stacked documents fills the coffee table in front of Arthur. “It’s Eames’ plan. Plays into Thibault’s vanity. We want him to stop selling weapons to the allies’ enemies, but need to make it seem like his idea. Eames figures imagery of Thibault as the arbiter of world peace and kumbaya bullshit will appeal to him.”

Bond frowns, mildly impressed. “Not bad.”

“It’s bloody brilliant, is what it is. A masterpiece of ingenuity.” 

He isn’t listening to Eames because Q walks from the kitchen just then, the shirt wrinkle-free and buttoned to his throat. He must have ironed it earlier. Q flashes a nervous smile, barely a quirk of his lips, and yet Bond seizes the moment as a sign of forgiveness. “I left some gear…upstairs. I’m just going to go collect that,” he says, staring at Bond.

A slight nod of his head and Q leaves. He has the good sense to wait a few seconds, then declares: “I’m going to fetch a few extra clips,” ignores Arthur’s eye roll and Eames’ smirk, and pursues the young man.

There isn’t any MI6 gear in the bedroom. Bond already knows that, so he’s not surprised when, upon entering the bedroom, Q is standing by the bureau with crossed arms. His nostrils are slightly flared, a bad sign, one that means he’s annoyed and been planning a grand speech. “I’m not a child and I don’t appreciate being treated like one.”

“I know that.” He raises his hands, a placating gesture, “Q, I apologize.”

“I thought we were past that: you treating me like some green amateur. You’re supposed to have my back.”

Bond growls, annoyed: “We _are_ past that. I have full confidence in your abilities.” The last thing he’d expected was to discuss Q’s work performance. He doesn’t understand what this conversation has to do with what’s been happening until Q stares at him in absolute earnestness.

“Then why are you babysitting me? Why did you punch Eames?”

 _Oh, Q._ Truly, he doesn’t know where to begin. _I don’t want him to have you, but I’m frightened of being with you because it would never be a fling with us._ Messy business, destined to change everything, and certainly not a conversation they should be having right now, hours before a major, dangerous job, Arthur and Eames eavesdropping on the ground level. Bonds sucks in a deep breath. “I apologize for my behavior. I trust you completely, and I’m going to have your back today, Q. Do you believe me?”

How he wishes that there wasn’t an undeniable flutter in his stomach when Q slowly smiles: “Yes, I believe you.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a small comfort that he won’t have to worry about a future relationship with Q because he’s fairly sure the young man wants to run off with the PASIV once it’s open in front of him and Arthur gives him a brief tutorial. The point man only has to mention a few aspects of the machine, and Q quickly fills in the blanks, already mapping out the schematics of the device on his own, occasionally commenting, “Fascinating…a beautiful machine,” and jotting down some notes.

Arthur looks quite chuffed. “If you ever want to freelance…”

“Don’t bother, I already tried,” Eames remarks, but looks like he regrets it the moment Arthur shoots him a hostile glare.

“Look, I know this situation is…odd, but I’m hoping we can set aside our differences and get the job done,” Arthur sighs, closing the PASIV case, and missing the disappointed pout on Q’s face.

They emit an affirmative chorus. Everyone wants to get paid, no one wants to get fired. Money unites people faster than fleeting things like love.

 

* * *

 

The job is pandemonium as soon as it begins. Donning waiter uniforms, the three of them loiter in the hallway adjacent to the main conference area, a rather large, conspicuous bag resting at Arthur’s feet. In it are the gas masks and canister of Fentanyl. Thibault’s speech is running long, throwing off the rest of their scheduling, which of course sets Arthur on edge. He keeps obsessively consulting his watch until Eames snaps: “He’s late. Late is late. It doesn’t bloody matter. The rest of the plan is the same.”

Bond reaches back to feel the weight of the gun’s handle in his hand. He’s not to use lethal force except as a last resort, so his hand slides over to the taser. Plan B.

Q stands to his side, endlessly fidgeting, unable to stand still because his nerves won’t allow it. He leans to the side. “I want you to duck into the washroom the second you see us emerge, understand?” This was the original plan, but he wants to know Q remembers it. The young man nods, biting a nail. Applause in the main room. Arthur casts him a meaningful look and Bond grips his shoulder one last time. “You can do this, Q.”

He slips into the washroom, while Arthur and Eames conceal themselves in a room across the hallway. Placing an ear to the door, he listens and waits. Voices. Male. Several of them. Then Q, saying, “Mr. Thibault, Mr. Babineau, I’m the head waiter designated to escort you through the kitchen. Please, follow me.”

That’s Arthur and Eames’ cue. A murmur of confusion and a startled shout are Bond’s prompt. He steps out of the bathroom and into the chaos of the hallway. Arthur rolled the canister into the midst of the security and the men are already choking on the gas. Bond is careful not to breathe until Arthur throws him a mask and it’s secured on his face. Arthur covers Thibault’s twisted mouth with a rag and the man goes limp. Meanwhile, Babineau tries to run, but Arthur steps on the back of his heel and the zoftig owner lands face-down on the floor. Straddling his back, Arthur covers his mouth with the rag next and then drags the men into the washroom. A blur passes—Q, racing after Arthur with the PASIV.

To their great credit, the security guards try to fight even through their central nervous systems are rapidly atrophying. They’re unable to cry out as the muscles seize in their throats and Eames stalks up to them one-by-one, tasering their necks and reducing them to writhing piles. One of the larger blokes doesn’t go down so Bond punches him twice in the gut and helps Eames drag him into the room across the hallway. 

Arthur emerges from the washroom to peer through the conference room door’s circular window.

“Anything?” he pants, voice garbled by the mask as he bends down to pick up a dropped walkie-talkie

“Nothing. Everyone filed out through the front doors. Let’s move.”

They shed the masks once they’re inside the washroom where Q already has Thibault secured to the machine. He supplies two more lines: one for Eames, the other for Arthur. “I’ve set the Somnacin levels as you showed me. Everything is ready.”

“Good,” Arthur calmly replies, but he’s breathing heavily as they lay down across the tiled floor. “If either of us seizes, you have to wake us up. I’ll meet you at the drop point,” he says to Eames.

For the first time since he’s known the man, Eames does not have a clever reply. The forger will playact Babineau, the setting a five-star restaurant located on the premises. The conversation: the legacy of man. It’s Eames’ job to convince Thibault a monument built on peace is more noble than one built on destruction and domination. Not for the first time, Bond is very glad his job is relatively clear cut and simple. As Q inserts the needle, Eames looks at him. “No one comes through that door.”

He removes the gun from his waistband and cocks it, just to make himself clear. “Not a problem,” he smirks, exiting the washroom so Q can lock the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

Thibault is a malleable subject, oblivious, never for a second believing a team of internationally wanted criminals has hijacked his dream. He orders the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu from their waiter, who is Arthur dressed in white shirt, charcoal vest, and matching bow tie. Eames reminds himself not to stare. “Very good, sir,” Arthur purrs and leaves.

“As I was saying, Aimé, strong men don’t feel compelled to express their strength through brute force.”

For a split second, the man furrows his blonde brows, and Eames maintains his pokerface until realization dawns across his face. The mind has bridged the gap, filling in all blank spaces. “But I am not a brute,” he laughs cavalierly, “It is not my concern what men do with my products.”

“And you are comfortable with that as your legacy? The man who didn’t care…”

Thibault stares at him in confusion just as Arthur approaches with the bottle of wine. “I’m afraid this is all we had in stock, sir.” He uncorks it and pours a sample glass for Thibault, but only ash pours out. “What is this?” the man asks in confusion, chandeliers trembling in warning. _Careful. Careful_. 

“The finest wine for the leader of the warlords,” Arthur remarks.

“How dare you—“ Thibault chokes on his rage, standing, and then collapsing to the chair again as Arthur walks off. “I’m never patronizing this establishment again!”

Eames-as-Babineau leans forward, whispering urgently: “There’s not much time, Aimé. The world has almost made up its mind about you. What would Hannah say?” As soon as the name leaves his mouth, Thibault’s projection of his daughter races by. She’s wearing her white nighty, the skirt flaring slightly as she runs past them, giggling. 

Thibault’s mouth drops open. “No,” he gasps, reaching for her, but she’s gone. “I can’t. The shareholders…”

“Shall that be your legacy? The shareholders?”

“I can’t, I can’t,” he moans, eyes huge and disbelieving, straying from the glass of ashes to the thin air, as though he can piece together his daughter from memories.

“Hannah can say her daddy was the leader of the warlords, who kill other little girls just like her.”

“No, no,” he hunches over, face crumbling into an ugly sob.

Eames-as-Babineau glances past him. Arthur is standing nearby, gun in hand, a subtle reminder that they don’t have much time. _Not yet, dammit._ His wrinkled hand shoots across the table to cover Thibault’s, squeezing the knuckles. “Make her proud, Aimé. You’ve enough wealth to walk away now and she will never want for anything. Leave her a better world. Let that be your legacy.”

Thibault’s face is streaked with tears as he nods, and that’s all the confirmation Eames needs. “We’re ready to order,” he says, the cue for Arthur to walk up behind the mark and level his gun at the back of his head. Before he pulls the trigger, their eyes meet, and Eames decides to deviate from the script, but only so he can say, “After this, come find me.” Arthur doesn’t say anything before he fires a bullet into the back of Thibault’s skull.

Q is ready with the chloroform-soaked rag, knocking Thibault out again the second he emerges from the dream. Babineau is still unconscious, slumped against the wall, as Arthur writes in lipstick across the washroom mirror: “CLIMATE CHANGE IS REAL. SHAME L’ALE DE L’ANGE.” 

“Not very subtle, darling,” Eames quips, and then a moment later asks: “What shade is that?”

Morse code tapping on the door. _All clear?_ Q closes the PASIV and carries it to the entrance, unlocking the door so Bond can poke his head inside. “Did it work?” When Eames nods, he grins, brows quirked as he gazes at Q. “Well done.”

 

* * *

 

One of the guards dies from complications related to the Fentanyl poisoning, but it doesn’t appear the higher-ups are overly concerned. The important part is Thibault and Babineau are unharmed, and Thibault has announced _Global Security_ will no longer allow sales to a handful of countries, all of which harbor individuals on the C.I.A. and Interpol’s top ten lists. Coincidences, coincidences…

They fled immediately after the job, pausing only to wipe down the entire cabin and erase fingerprints, though serendipitously no one discovered the unconscious targets until several hours later, giving them plenty of time to escape the resort and head for the nearest airport. The news tells stories about “eco-terrorists,” and shows footage of Arthur’s scrawled mirror message. Eames left no footprints and Thibault has no idea his dreams have been manipulated. In his mind, he survived a traumatic, life-changing ordeal that gave him a fresh perspective on life.

The guards saw their faces, and supply only the vaguest descriptions to the authorities, who relay facial composites to the media. Q’s is by far the most accurate and he expresses some concern, but Bond tells him at the most he’ll have to wear a beanie and contacts for a few weeks before the media moves on to the next major tragedy and everyone forgets about the attack. He has no idea to where Arthur and Eames abscond, and truthfully he doesn’t want to know. Arthur is lovely, but his heart isn’t really in pursuing the man, and at this point in his life, Bond has learned to trust his instincts.

Which is precisely why he finds himself standing in the middle of Q’s modest flat Monday evening after work. Bond scaled the side of the building easily enough and jimmied the window open. He plans to tell Q to tighten security, but the thought sails out of his head when the young man walks through the front door, sans glasses, wild mop of hair concealed beneath a beanie just as he instructed. Q looks so surprised standing there, buds plugged into his ears, that Bond is overcome by a wave of fondness. The keys dangle from the lock as his messenger bag’s strap slides off a shoulder and falls heavily to the floor. “Bond…what are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d check in on you.” Q removes the keys from the lock, pockets them, steps inside, and shuts the door. They haven’t had a chance to speak one-on-one since the job, only the short debriefing inside M’s office when they couldn’t really speak freely, but were expected to graciously accept M’s praise. Q offers a cup of tea, and being a proper British gent, he accepts, and spends the time waiting for water to boil shedding his jacket and looking around the young man’s flat. There are no photos, but a lot books (many of them eastern literature and religion). “Planning a trip?” he asks when Q carries in the steaming cup and hands it to him. The beanie is gone, mop free to spring in all directions.

“I’m learning Mandarin,” he explains, arms crossed. It’s not a casual pose and Bond doesn’t care for its stilted nature. He takes a sip of tea, hums appreciatively, and leaves it on a coaster atop the coffee table. It will remain there, forgotten, for the rest of the night. 

“You asked me why I attacked Eames…before.” Q doesn’t answer, but nods, “I was jealous. I didn’t want him to have you.”

Confusion furrows Q’s brow. “But why? You’re not interested in me…are you?” He’d been spending weeks recovering from the embarrassing drunken episode in which his crush became common knowledge because Bond was a fool and deflected the attention, sending Q right into Eames’ arms.

Bond sucks in a deep, cleansing breath. _No turning back now, old boy._ “You’re something of a problem for me because I’m rather fond of you, Q. I’m attracted to you in the way I’d be attracted to any fit young person, but I enjoy and rely on our working relationship, and I don’t want to jeopardize that.” Those are the words he carefully aligned and polished over the prior weeks, but his brain spews the next bit: “Besides, I didn’t know how serious your interest was once you moved on to Eames so readily.”

Anger flares across Q’s face. “If you’d bothered to _ask_ me, I would have told you my interest in Eames was largely because he told me stories about you.” His face reddens, chin dipping so he can examine the tips of his bare toes. Bond doesn’t know when he removed his shoes and socks, but it’s the first time he’s seen Q’s feet, and the presence of his toes temporarily distracts him. He’s been a fool. Now that the chaos of the job is behind him, yes, it does occur to him that Q moved on to another older, suave British man, and he’s always considered Eames an inferior version of himself.

He sighs and steps forward, gently lifting Q’s chin, and dipping down to kiss him. It’s meant to be an apologetic gesture, an olive branch of sorts until they can figure out everything, but he is unprepared for Q launching into his arms, and the hungry assault of his mouth. The young man is full of surprises: quiet, sharp-witted, proper Q is warm and alive in his arms, whimpering into his mouth, and Bond gathers him, lifting, delighting in how easy it is to pick him up. Slender legs wrap around his waist and he carries him across the apartment, opening an eye in search of the shut bedroom door. It’s a one-bedroom so he doesn’t need to pause for directions, groping blindly for the knob, and throwing it open. Q cups his face, stroking the stubble-covered jawline, raking fingers through Bond’s hair. He has to break for air, gasping, breathlessly laughing: “Bloody hell.” He deposits Q on the bed and the young man immediately reaches for his belt, yanking the leather strip from the metal clasp, “Shh, easy,” he whispers, stroking the young man’s thick mane off his brow. Q looks up at him and smiles.

“You made me wait for ages. I’m allowed to be greedy.” He dips down and buries his face against Bond’s crotch, mouthing his hardening cock through the slacks and moaning when he inhales.

His fingers curl in Q’s hair, anchoring him there for a moment, just so he can get his thoughts together. How did Eames seduce Q so quickly? Yes, the other Brit is handsome, but Bond knows he’s no scrub in that department. “Why did you go upstairs with him?” he gasps, Q’s mouth warm and wet as he sucks on the outline of his cock. The interest in learning more about Bond doesn’t explain why Q allows the other man to take him into the bedroom and grope him.

Q’s eyes are beautiful, a fact previously concealed because they were hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses. They’re pale: green, perhaps, with traces of blue, even streaks of hazel closer to the pupils like an amber starburst, and thick lashes lowered to half-mast in a sexy, dazed stare. “He told me to,” Q murmurs sincerely, and the words baffle Bond for a number of moments. He allows the youth to resume sucking him through his slacks, and he soothingly strokes Q’s mane as he processes the confession. That’s all it took? A direct order?

Fingers tighten in the locks, peeling Q away so he can look at him. “Is that what you want? To be told what to do?” Q licks his lips, gaze ascending from Bond’s crotch to the length of his torso, and finally his face. The young man doesn’t speak, but the hungry look on his face is answer enough. A strong throb of desire pulsates in his groin, rippling outwards, an excited trill that travels to his fingertips and toes. “Take out my cock and suck it.”

The breath audibly hitches in Q’s throat and he scrambles to comply, pulling the belt from the loops with a _whoosh_ , and setting it on the bed (not the floor, Bond notes), unfastening and unzipping, pushing the briefs down until he springs free, proud and fully erect. He swallows Bond, showing off by taking him deep on the first go, and he grunts appreciatively, fingers curling in his hair to keep him pinned there a moment. Q’s eyes finally slip shut when Bond allows him to ease back, rosy mouth leaving a wet trail in its wake, and he sucks greedily on the head before diving back down. “Fuck,” he growls, permitting Q to set the pace and demonstrate his gifts. Fingers curl beneath the waistbands and yank downward, leaving them at mid-thigh so he can lavish similar attention on the sac. Bond swears again, his knees nearly wobbling. He grips Q’s mane and pulls him back, pushing the head back into his mouth. The roughness is appreciated, Q moaning happily as he rapidly bobs, and Bond looks away for a moment, confident in the knowledge that he will most certainly come if he watches Q choke on his length.

That happens a moment later, the young man deliberately taking his cock so deeply that he gags, throat muscles spasming around the head. Q draws back, coughing, and Bond comfortingly strokes his hair. Never underestimate the enthusiasm of youth: Q dives back down a moment later, sucking him with abandon. Bond glances at his face, flushed and lovely, mouth stretched wide open. “Stop. Take off your clothes,” he instructs, voice rough. Scrambling to obey, Q yanks the sweater off, fingers quivering as he unbuttons the undershirt and slides it off his torso. The young man has seen Bond in various stages of disrobement over the years in order to affix gear and examine wounds, but the sampling has never been reciprocated until now, and though Bond is so hard that his cock has begun to leak from the head, he takes a moment to appreciate the sight. Q is slender, bordering on skinny, but there’s something beautiful—almost feline—about him. He arches his hips off the bed and wriggles free of the slacks and briefs. “Get on your hands and knees.”

“Lube and condoms in the side drawer,” Q pants, rolling onto his stomach and propping up onto his knees. Bond runs his hand down the ridges of his spine, pressing a thumb pad into the dimples above his rear. 

“Entertaining visitors often?” he murmurs, gaze flitting to the belt on the bed. _Not yet. Soon._

Q laughs breathlessly. “God, no. Just in case. The condoms have turned to dust, for all I know.” He rests on his forearms, tantalizingly wagging his hips, and gazing back at him. “I don’t have a lot of time to entertain.”

He reaches to the side and opens the drawer, pulling out a strip of condoms and the small bottle. Bond rips off a square and opens the pouch with his teeth. He harbors something of a personal resentment towards condoms, hating the way the latex restricts circulation and robs partners of the highest form of intimacy, but this is the safest option for Q, and he doesn’t want to press the issue. Maybe later, if they make a regular habit of this, Bond will get tested and they can bareback. The idea of it makes him dizzy. 

Spreading his thighs, Q exposes himself entirely, revealing that though a fine coat of hair lines his legs and crotch, the rest of his body is pale and smooth—perhaps naturally, though Bond dabbles in a fantasy where Q shaves himself for his pleasure. He runs his thumb down the crevice, across the pink entrance and Q whimpers. Bond slides out of his trousers and briefs, kicking them aside, and smirks when Q steals a hungry glance. He lets him look for awhile, unbuttoning his shirt and removing it next. Perhaps the young man does occasionally entertain, but it’s clearly been a while because he can barely fit a lubricated finger inside him. Q shifts and shudders, moaning softly when Bond works the digit deeper, stroking and coaxing him open.

Bond rolls on the condom and adds another dollop of lube before guiding the head into him, pressing, gripping the hips and pulling him backwards. “Bond..” Q gasps, a warning, so he freezes and soothingly strokes the slick expanse of his back. _Call me James_ , he thinks. _I love when you call me that._ “James..” he moans, and Bond doesn’t know if the words were spoken aloud or Q is reading his mind again. 

“You’re so bloody tight,” he rasps, gripping Q’s waist and whitening the skin, dragging him backward in-by-inch until he’s buried to the hilt. So uncompromising is the squeeze of his inner muscles that Bond can feel Q’s heartbeat. He reaches for the belt, loops it and runs the leather strap across his back, down the flank to the swell of his rear. Q shudders, but doesn’t tell him to stop, which is as good as consent. The first strike rocks Q forwards and he cries out, tightening around Bond’s cock. He cracks the belt once more, and again, until Q’s pale flesh sprouts red welts, and the youth claws the sheets free from the corners of the bed. _James, please. Please_ , he begs, wet and writhing beneath him. When he reaches around to grope between the youth’s legs, he feels the length of the rigid erection, curved desperately against his stomach. The belt clatters against the floor and he covers Q’s hipbones with his palms, anchoring him in place as hips pump forward, slapping against his bruised rear. Q wails in gratitude, cheek pressed to the mattress and thighs straining as he presents himself.

Someone pounds on the wall and Bond’s pace stutters, but Q reaches back and pleadingly claws at his thigh. “Don’t stop, don’t stop. It’s my bloody neighbor. James, please.” He thrusts sharply, wanting to say _I don’t give a toss about your neighbor_ , but his jaw is locked, the best articulation primal grunts at the end of each stroke. Q cries out again, louder than before, ancient mattress noisily squeaking. The first thing he’s going to do tomorrow morning is purchase him a new bed, and then realizes spending the night has already been implied. At least in his own mind. 

He’s in so much trouble.

Q moans praise of his girth, chanting that he's so big, too big, and Bond wants to tell him to be quiet, but he can’t speak. Next time, he’ll gag the youth. He’ll tie his wrists and ankles to the bed. He’s going to straddle his face and make Q suck him to the hilt. “ _Fuck_ ,” he grunts, seizing his waist, rocking deep as he comes, and Q collapses to the bed, moaning and writhing. When Bond snakes a hand beneath his pelvis, fingers come back wet and sticky. The young came without touch. He presses a kiss to a sharp shoulder blade and rolls off him, disposing of the condom in a wastebasket, and Q is too dazed to chastise him about how disgusting that is, and he’ll be the one cleaning it up later. Instead, the young man rolls onto his back, scooting so Bond can lay beside him, Q’s head resting against his chest.

Plucking tissues from the side table, Q tidies up his stomach and chest, and tosses the balled up paper into the basket as well. They’re quiet for a while, Bond thoughtfully stroking Q’s back as the youth traces his fingertips over the expanse of his chest. Finally, he kisses Q’s burning brow and whispers: “Shall I stay then?”

“Please,” Q answers at once, too earnest, which makes him think about all the times the young man may have wanted something and could not have it. But this is not the time for sadness, so he reaches down and gently squeezes one of the bruised cheeks, mindful that there is good pain and bad pain, and he never wants to provide Q with the latter.

“I’m buying you a new bed, and I’m going to have a word with your neighbor. He needs to be taught some manners.”

Q’s lips spread against his pectoral muscle in a smile and he kisses the flesh. “James…behave.”

He looks down into Q’s shining face and kisses the bow-shaped lips because he can. “No,” he grins, rolling them over so he can pin the youth to the bed.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks pass after the job, and Eames waits in Mombasa for Arthur, but the man never arrives, so he hits the town and consumes heroic amounts of alcohol. The following afternoon, when he wakes up on the floor of his living room, Eames staggers over to the couch, powers up his laptop, and books a flight for New York City. 

Arthur never did like doing things the easy way.

Eames is told three times he’s too drunk to board the plane out of Mombasa, but the truth is he isn’t intoxicated, merely exuding the fumes of leftover inebriation. A handful of euros is enough to make the steward forget about rules and regulations, and permit Eames passage. He sleeps the majority of the flight, only waking for transfers, and arrives a day later in America, suit rumpled, hair unruly. First stop is a tailor where he purchases a new suit, then rents a hotel room so he can shower and trim his beard. Arthur prefers him clean-shaven, but he can fuck off.

When he looks presentable, he takes a cab to Arthur’s building, rides the lift to the fourteen floor, and uses the little kit nestled inside his jacket pocket to break into the point man’s apartment. Since he’s not an amateur, Arthur has a rather sophisticated security system that he disables in just under fifteen seconds. _Nice try, darling_. Eames spends a few hours looking around, picking up objects and setting them down elsewhere, examining old photos and records, sprawling across Arthur’s bed on his back and looking at the ceiling as he tries to imagine what Arthur thinks about when he lays in bed at night.

The point man is the information expert, so for all he knows Arthur is halfway across the globe working a job. Eames is just considering spending the night in Arthur’s bedroom and sending selfies of him tucked in the man’s bed when the front door’s knob rattles. By the time he walks from the bedroom and into the living room, Arthur has drawn his weapon and aims the barrel at his chest. “Shit,” he sighs, once he realizes it’s Eames, and holsters the gun, “What the hell?”

“Social norms dictate that one either accepts or rejects an invitation, Arthur. To do neither is considered rude. _Rude_ , Arthur.”

The man blinks. “You broke into my home!”

A logical rebuttal, not that he’s planning to concede the point. “I told you to come see me after the job.”

Arthur scoffs, shrugging out of his jacket, and removing the gun holster. “Oh, so you snap your fingers, and expect me to come running? Fuck off, Eames. You humiliated me on that job.” He walks past Eames to the front entrance where he unties his dress shoes and opens a nearby closet where the other footwear rests in wooden cubbyholes. Arthur is absolutely mental about organization. Eames makes a silent note to switch around the shoes later just to keep him on his toes.

“Yes, about that. How did I embarrass you? I fail to see how my interest in a young man, in any way, affects you.”

Leveling a vicious scowl, Arthur walks past him and into the bedroom, Eames following close behind. “Don’t play dumb. It’s unbecoming,” he mutters, yanking the cufflinks free and setting them on the bureau. He loosens the tie next, sliding it free from its collar and draping it across an armchair. These type of high-rise apartments are so stuffy, the air recirculated, and Eames is too warm so he removes his jacket and leaves it on the armchair, making a mental note to fetch it later. Arthur watches him and rolls his eyes, storming from the bedroom. “If you don’t know why I’m upset, you’re denser than I thought.”

He’s never known Arthur to be anything but brutally direct, so this passive-aggressive dance is doing his head in. “Would you stop being so bloody opaque?” Arthur unbuttons his collar to the clavicle, momentarily distracting Eames, but he recovers quickly: “I feel like I’m arguing with a woman.”

Arthur shows his teeth in a way that means he’d really love to hit the forger, and truthfully, a good old-fashioned brawl would be preferable to…this. Whatever this is. They’ve resorted to physical blows in the past, but fighting is cleansing like a purge, and then they could move on. “People laugh about it. Did you know that? About us? Apparently I’ve been _pining_ for you for about a decade. I overheard Pauline and Han Yu discussing it during the Russia job.”

Eames sighs, bracing hands against his hips. “Surely you know this industry is full of gossips, Arthur.”

“Stop doing that!” he explodes, startling Eames into silence, “Stop pretending there wasn’t something between us that we were both too cowardly to explore. Then we got older, and maybe it went away for you, but it didn’t go away for me, and now I’m this…. _pathetic_ fossil pining over you, while you pursue children half my age. Do you have any idea how that feels, Eames? When you do it right in front of me?” Horrifyingly, Arthur’s voice wavers, and Eames finally understands the direness of their situation. 

“You make me sound like a bloody pedophile,” he grumbles, then looks up at Arthur, “You have feelings for me still?”

There had been flirting since their first meeting, but nothing substantial that Eames could name. Perhaps Arthur, or the idea of Arthur, frightens him—someone who is his exact equal, not a boy he can easily manipulate and discard, but a reckoning force. Yes, Arthur is older now, but he’s still stunning and maddeningly brilliant, and Eames has never stopped holding him as the ideal of masculine beauty, not that he ever confessed that aloud. He’s always known there would be no casual tasting of Arthur. Once he had a nibble, he’d devour him entirely, plunging into irreversible addiction. Love would make him a slave, and Eames values his freedom too much for that to happen.

Arthur’s hostility is palpable, “ _Yes_ , you moron.”

“But Bond..” he weakly objects.

He sneers and storms past him, back towards the bedroom, his anger preventing him from standing still for more than a couple minutes. “He reminds me of you. Correction: a less dense version of you. He at least knew what I wanted from him.” Eames follows him like an abused puppy that still adores his master. He watches from the doorway as Arthur slides out of his dress shirt, revealing the ropey muscles of his back, the scars peppering pale flesh, and still Eames doesn’t understand what’s happening. 

“I thought you were with that bloke. What’s his name? Steven?”

Distasteful glance tossed over a shoulder as Arthur rolls the socks off his feet. “Steven is straight. We were just working a job together.” Yes, well. A rather incidental detail. Most straight men are only straight up to a point, and Eames has played the role of that point many, many times. Besides, who could resist Arthur? He watches him unbuckle his trousers and slide them off his hips, now dressed only in a pair of black briefs that sinfully hug his rear. He declares his name on an exhale and Arthur gazes back at him. “Do you still want me?”

An absurd question. He stalks forward and grabs him, pushing until they hit a wall, and kisses his lips with bruising force. Arthur moans, gripping the back of his neck, biting and licking with delightful (and surprising) passion. “I don’t want a boy,” Eames gasps when Arthur thrusts a hand beneath his waistband and palms him through the silk boxers. Naiveté and inexperience are lovely novelties, but no one is a match for capable, sophisticated Arthur. “You’re the only person who’s never bored me. Did you know that?” He dives towards his neck, sucking and biting the flesh as Arthur pants and strokes him, chanting his name.

Arthur turns and he yanks down the briefs to the point man’s ankles, allowing him to step free of them. From his knees, Eames appreciates the view, parting the cheeks to lay a worshipful kiss between then, and Arthur groans, arching his back, “Drawer,” he murmurs.

Eames opens the top drawer of the bureau and pulls out a small tube. “Where are your…?” he trails off, gripping and massaging the firm cheeks, delighting in the intimate view. His brain refuses to supply the word _condoms_.

“Fuck me, Eames. C’mon. Please,” he pants, moaning again when Eames runs the hot, wet plane of his tongue across the hole. “Are you clean?”

Eames eases back, purring: “Yes, but you shouldn’t take my word for it, darling.”

Arthur reaches back and strokes his hair, an almost tender gesture that splits open Eames’ chest. “I trust you. You’d never hurt me,” he deliriously murmurs, forehead rocking against the wall.

He stands up quickly, unfastening his trousers and squeezing a few drops of lube. “Never deliberately, love.” Eames smears the lubricant across his length and pushes inside, Arthur hissing as he sheathes himself on his cock, groping at the wall until Eames folds his arms behind his back and uses them as leverage as he thrusts.

“Fuck,” Arthur whines, arching his back, face a mask of pained pleasure as he presses a cheek to the Moroccan wallpaper. 

 _Indeed_ , Eames silently agrees, marveling in the tight warmth. Arthur is fitter than most young blokes he’s had, making his insecurity all the more unwarranted. _If I had only known, I would have chosen you every time_. Or so the romantic inside him believes. The realist knows that would not have been the case—that sowing his oats on multiple continents was necessary because now he is certain Arthur is who he wants. Suddenly, the muscles coil and Arthur grunts. When Eames gropes his stomach, he feels the sticky residue of his orgasm. “Bloody hell,” he laughs, “How long has it been?”

“Shut up,” Arthur murmurs, eyes hidden against his forearm.

Eames chuckles and places a kiss between his shoulder blades. “C’mon, darling,” he encourages, guiding him over to the bed to bend him over its side. Sprawling across his back, Eames’ hips piston, slapping against Arthur’s exposed rear. He keens, teeth sinking into the flesh of his forearm to silence himself, perhaps an old self-flagellating habit. Eames kisses and nuzzles his neck until Arthur turns towards him and moans aloud again, Eames swallowing the noise when he kisses him. Today will be the last day Arthur denies the will of his heart. This moment will be the last in which he fears his desires.

He’s not prepared for the intimacy of climaxing inside him—for the way Arthur moans in a mixture of pleasure and relief as though a badly wanted wish has finally been fulfilled. “Oh, darling,” he whispers, stroking his brow. They’d been so foolish for so long. Eames is still dressed in his suit, slacks open, limp cock hanging out as he sprawls across the bed. Arthur slips out to use the bathroom, and he folds arms behind his head to watch the man’s return. Arthur looks incredible nude. “Come here,” he says, gathering him into his arms and kissing Arthur’s forehead. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you, if you’ll still have me.”

Postcoital, Arthur’s stubborn streak returns, much to his delight: “We’ll see. You have to earn it, Mr. Eames.”

As always, the title sends a thrill through him, which of course is Arthur’s plan. He kisses his temple, lovingly nuzzling where the grey hairs reside.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr theaoidos.tumblr.com


End file.
